


Blighted Fool

by Poohzhunny



Series: Blighted Fool [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, The Winter Palace (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-09 06:32:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18911491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poohzhunny/pseuds/Poohzhunny
Summary: Just a quick short to flex the writing muses. Wondered what it might be like for Cullen/Trevelyan at the Winter Palace if they haven’t flirted yet.





	Blighted Fool

“No, thank you,” he answered to the latest of a dozen requests for a dance. The Orlesian simply nodded and moved on, their feeling on the matter carefully hidden behind the mask that she wore, as they all did. _Thank the Maker, it’s almost over._ Cullen allowed himself a sip of wine while he distanced himself from the drone of the people that had gathered around him. He’d faced countless battles and seen more horror than most in Thedas would in a lifetime, yet the evening at the Winter Palace had strained him beyond measure. His eyes scanned the crowd but everyone had returned to the normal pace that was an Orlesian ball, despite the turmoil caused by the Grand Duchess.

A flash of cream and lavender tones drew his gaze to the dance floor. Inquisitor Trevelyan, back in her gown, glided along to the rhythm of the orchestra, smiling graciously at Count who-knows-who, one of the seemingly endless list of nobles who’d requested a dance from the hero of the evening. Raised as a noble, he assumed she would never let on, but he didn’t miss the strain at the edge of her features as the evening drew on. She’d fought her way through countless enemies and demons throughout the course of her investigations that night and now that the party had resumed, the nobles - who barely even knew her name when she first set foot in the Winter Palace - could not get enough of her.

Her eyes caught his during one of the passes across the floor with a silent plea for help and his breath caught in his chest. The woman - who faced demons, red templars, enraged bears and monsters he couldn’t begin to enumerate in a single sentence and never once requested help from the Inquisition troops at her disposal - begged him with every fiber in her body for a rescue from the masked nobles of Orlais. And he, like some bumbling, ungrateful fool, froze in place at the thought.

His fists clenched in seething fury at his own cowardice. His years of training as a Templar had not prepared him for an evening in Orlais. They didn’t have balls, or anything frivolous for that matter. What little he knew of dancing would be a disgrace to the Inquisition at best, yet the thought of leaving her to her fate made his throat clench. His memory flashed to their first time alone together, playing a game of chess in the yard. Unlike Dorian, he remembered, she had played fair and applied herself with a sound strategy. Though he could have countered it easily enough, he’d thrown the game instead, hoping it might entice her to play again. Her days travelling hadn’t allowed for it, but she always returned to his tower when she could to share a story over a glass of wine.

After Adamant, his lyrium withdrawal had caught up with him. He feared he had been failing. The pains, the nightmares, the hallucinations almost overwhelmed him. He’d asked Cassandra to recommend a replacement, and both her and the Inquisitor had refused. Her words of support and encouragement had touched him, and when she had squeezed his arm, placing her other hand on his chest to reaffirm that he could do this... it had been the spark he needed to rekindle his determination. “Oh,” she had said with her signature smile, “and please call me Evelyn.” It was her gift though, wasn’t it? Making her people feel like they could accomplish anything through countless expressions of kindness - a smile, a touch, a laugh. There was hardly a soul in Skyhold who wouldn’t have laid down their lives for her, himself included.

“Andraste preserve me,” he whispered as his feet took the first steps toward the dance floor. The thundering of his heart drowned out the music. How was he supposed to dance now? He could sense her relief when she spotted him at the edge of the floor. When she reached him, her partner realized the impending interruption and they parted. Cullen bowed at the waist with an extended hand, taking a deep breath before lifting his head enough to be heard. “May I have this dance, my lady?” She dropped her hand in his, light as a feather, and moved in so he could place the other on her waist. The orchestra paused long enough to allow the silence of the entire ballroom to strike him and he thought he might vomit.

She giggled, the tinkling sound travelling to his ear just in time before the music returned. “Don’t let them distract you,” she whispered. Her fingers, which had been resting on his shoulder, travelled to the edge of his jaw to turn his gaze to her. “It’s just me and you. Yes?” As it always did, her calm radiated into him and he relaxed enough to remember the basic steps as the melody began in earnest. He’d never known a woman like her and he wished nothing more than to tell her, but whenever he flirted with the idea, his mouth turned to ash and the words died before they reached his lips. “Thank you,” she said after several beats.

“For what?” He managed while trying not to think about how slender her body felt in his palm, or the faint smell of honey and lavender of her hair.

“For rescuing me from whoever was next in line. I don’t think I could have survived another,” she grinned, her eyes closing in relief as she let him lead, graceful and delicate, but strong all the same. Leadership had been thrust upon her in dire times, and though she’d never wanted it, she bore the responsibility with dignity. It must be nice, he supposed, to let it go, even if only for a few stolen moments.

His eyes wandered, lingering to the freckles on her nose, down to the curve of her lips which had parted slightly. His fingers held her just above the waist, circling along her ribs toward her back, every movement connecting her to him. “I admit I considered abandoning the field.”

She laughed aloud this time, her head tilting back while her features turned up in mirth, her laughter warm and infectious. “Is the thought of dancing with me so terrifying?”

He felt the blood drain from his face at the thought. “No! I mean, it’s not you. Maker’s Breath...” He cleared his throat in an attempt to regain his composure. “It’s just... I’m not one for dancing. Dorian would have been a better choice.”

There was that smile again. The one that made him forget to be angry at himself. The one that made everything right. Her brow furrowed a touch, the grey of her eyes searching his before she continued. “Perhaps, but I didn’t want to dance with Dorian.” His body froze and he almost missed the next steps but her arms strengthened, her hand taking his in a firm hold as she pulled him through the next several chords. “Just breathe, Cullen,” she giggled.

She gave him time to absorb the sentence, leading him along, his will all but lost to him. His mind raced to find something meaningful to say, something - anything - to let her know what she meant to him. His lips parted, taking a long breath to steady himself so he wouldn’t fumble his words, and the melody ended. The silence in the hall bore down on him. His mouth turned to ash and his jaw snapped shut. She curtsied with a strained smile before taking her leave from the floor. He watched as the door to the ballroom closed behind her, his ears deaf to the return of music around him. His hands clenched into fists. _Blighted fool._


End file.
